The Monogram Murders (44 page)

once. He knew that he had given a glass of sherry to a

man calling himself Richard Negus who behaved as if

he had encountered him before,
but this man did not

look like the Richard Negus that Thomas Brignell

had met
. Remember, Mr. Lazzari has told us that Mr.

Brignell has an excellent memory for faces as well as

names.
That
is why he did not speak up when I asked

about the sherry! He was distracted by his thoughts. A

voice in his head whispered: ‘It must have been him,

the same man. But it was not him—I would have

recognized him.’

“A few moments later, Mr. Brignell said to

himself, ‘What kind of fool am I? Of course it was

Richard Negus if he said that was his name! For once

my memory lets me down. And besides, the man

sounded just like Mr. Negus, with his educated

English accent.’ It would seem
incroyable
to the

scrupulously honest Thomas Brignell that anyone

should wish to impersonate another in order to trick

him.

“After reaching the conclusion that the man must

have been Richard Negus, Mr. Brignell decides to

stand up and tell me that he met Mr. Negus in the

corridor at half past seven on the night of the murders,

but he is too embarrassed to mention the sherry,

because he fears he will seem an imbecile for sitting

in silence in response to my earlier question about the

drink
.
I would surely ask, in front of everybody, ‘Why

did you not tell me this before?’ and Mr. Brignell

would have been mortified to have to say, ‘Because I

was too busy wondering how Mr. Negus came to have

a different face the second time I encountered him.’

Mr. Brignell, can you confirm that what I am saying is

true? There is no need to worry about looking like a

fool. You were the opposite. It
was
a different face. It

was a different man.”

“Thank goodness,” said Brignell. “Everything you

have said is absolutely correct, Mr. Poirot.”

“
Bien sûr,
” said Poirot immodestly. “Do not

forget, ladies and gentlemen, that the same name does

not necessarily mean the same person. When Signor

Lazzari described to me the woman who took a room

in this hotel using the name Jennie Hobbs, I thought

that she was probably the same woman I had met at

Pleasant’s Coffee House. She sounded similar: fair

hair, dark brown hat, lighter brown coat. But two men

who have each seen a woman fitting this description

only once, they cannot be certain they have seen the

same woman
.

“This led me to ruminate. I already suspected that

the dead Richard Negus whose body I saw and the

living Richard Negus seen by Rafal Bobak and

Thomas Brignell on the night of the murders were two

different men. Then I remembered being told that on

arrival at the Bloxham on the Wednesday, Richard

Negus was dealt with by Thomas Brignell. If I was

right in my suppositions, then this would have been a

different Richard Negus, the real one. Suddenly I

understood Thomas Brignell’s predicament. How

could he say publicly that this one man appeared to

have two faces? Everyone would think him a lunatic!”

“You’re the one that sounds half-crazed, Mr.

Poirot,” said Samuel Kidd with a sneer.

Poirot went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “This

impostor might not have resembled Richard Negus in

appearance, but I have no doubt that his voice was a

perfect imitation. He is an excellent mimic—are you

not, Mr. Kidd?”

“Don’t listen to this man! He’s a liar!”

“No, Mr. Kidd. It is you who are the liar. You have

impersonated me more than once.”

Fee Spring stood up at the back of the room. “You

should all believe Mr. Poirot,” she said. “He’s telling

the truth, all right. I’ve heard Mr. Samuel Kidd speak

in his accent. With my eyes closed, I’d not know the

difference.”

“It is not only with his voice that Samuel Kidd

lies,” said Poirot. “The first time I met him, he

presented himself as a man of below average

intelligence and slovenly appearance: his shirt with

the missing button and the stain. Also the incomplete

beard—he had shaved only one small patch of his

face. Mr. Kidd, please tell everybody here why you

went to great lengths to make yourself look so

disheveled the first time we met.”

Samuel Kidd stared resolutely ahead. He said

nothing. His eyes were full of loathing.

“Very well, if you will not speak then I shall

explain it myself. Mr. Kidd cut his cheek while

climbing down the tree outside the window of Room

238, Richard Negus’s hotel room. A cut on the face of

a smartly dressed man might stand out and invite

questions, no? One who is careful about his

appearance would surely not allow a razor to make an

unsightly mark upon his face. Mr. Kidd did not want

me to think along these lines. He did not want me to

wonder if he might recently have climbed out of an

open window and down a tree, so he created the

general unkempt appearance. He arranged himself to

look like the sort of man who would be so careless as

to cut himself while shaving and then, to avoid further

cuts, walk around with half a beard on and half off!

Such a chaotic man would
of course
use his shaving

razor recklessly and do damage—this is what Poirot

was supposed to believe, and it was what he did

believe at first.”

“Hold on a minute, Poirot,” I said. “If you’re

saying that Samuel Kidd climbed out of Richard

Negus’s hotel-room window—”

“Am I saying that he murdered Mr. Negus?
Non.

He did not. He assisted the murderer of Richard

Negus. As for who that person is . . . I have not yet

told you the name.” Poirot smiled.

“No, you haven’t,” I said sharply. “Nor have you

told me who were the three people in Room 317

when Rafal Bobak took up the afternoon tea. You’ve

said that the three murder victims were all dead by

then—”

“Indeed they were. One of the three in Room 317

at a quarter past seven was Ida Gransbury—dead, but

positioned upright in a chair to appear alive, as long

as one did not see her face. Another was Samuel

Kidd, playing the part of Richard Negus.”

“Yes, I see that, but who was the third?” I asked

rather desperately. “Who was the woman posing as

Harriet Sippel, gossiping with spiteful glee? It can’t

have been Jennie Hobbs. As you say, Jennie would

have had to be halfway to Pleasant’s Coffee House by

then.”

“Ah, yes, the woman gossiping gleefully,” said

Poirot. “I shall tell you who that was, my friend. That

woman was Nancy Ducane.”

LOUD CRIES OF SHOCK filled the room.

“Oh, no, Monsieur Poirot,” said Luca Lazzari.

“Signora Ducane is one of the country’s foremost

artistic talents. She is also a most loyal friend of this

hotel. You must be mistaken!”

“I am not mistaken,
mon ami
.”

I looked at Nancy Ducane, who sat with an air of

quiet resignation. She denied nothing that Poirot had

said.

Famous artist Nancy Ducane conspiring with

Samuel Kidd, Jennie Hobbs’s former fiancé? I had

never been more flummoxed in my life than I was at

that moment. What could it all mean?

“Did I not tell you, Catchpool, that Madame

Ducane wears the scarf over her face today
because

she does not wish to be recognized
? You assumed

that I meant ‘recognized as the celebrated portrait

painter.’ No! She did not want be recognized by Rafal

Bobak as the Harriet he saw in Room 317 on the night

of the murders! Please stand and remove your scarf,

Mrs. Ducane.”

Nancy did so.

“Mr. Bobak, was this the woman you saw?”

“Yes, Mr. Poirot. It was.”

It was quiet, but audible nonetheless: the sound of

breath being drawn into lungs and held there. It filled

the large room.

“You did not recognize her as the famous portrait

painter, Nancy Ducane?”

“No, sir. I know nothing about art, and I only saw

her in profile. She had her head turned away from

me.”

“I am sure she did, in case you happened to be an

art enthusiast and able to identify her.”

“I spotted her as soon as she walked in today,

though—her and that Mr. Kidd chappy. I tried to tell

you, sir, but you wouldn’t let me speak.”

“Yes, and so did Thomas Brignell try to tell me

that he recognized Samuel Kidd,” said Poirot.

“Two of the three people I’d thought were

murdered—alive and well and walking into the

room!” From his voice, it was evident that Rafal

Bobak had not yet recovered from the shock.

“What about Nancy Ducane’s alibi from Lord and

Lady Wallace?” I asked Poirot.

“I’m afraid that wasn’t true,” said Nancy. “It is my

fault. Please do not blame them. They are dear friends

and were trying to help me. Neither St. John nor

Louisa knew that I was at the Bloxham Hotel on the

night of the murders. I swore to them that I had not

been, and they trusted me. They are good, brave

people who did not want to see me framed for three

murders I did not commit. Monsieur Poirot, I believe

you understand everything, so you must know that I

have murdered nobody.”

“To lie to the police in a murder investigation is

not brave, madame. It is inexcusable. By the time I

left your house, Lady Wallace, I knew you to be a

liar!”

“How dare you speak to my wife like that?” said

St. John Wallace.

“I am sorry if the truth is not to your taste, Lord

Wallace.”

“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot?” his wife

asked.

“You had a new servant girl: Dorcas. She is here

with you today only because I asked you to bring her.

She is important to this story. You told me that Dorcas

had been with you for just a few days, and I saw for

myself that she is a little clumsy. She brought me a

cup of coffee and spilled most of it. Luckily not all

was spilled, and so I was able to drink some.
I

immediately recognized it as the coffee made by

Pleasant’s

Coffee

House.

Their

coffee

is

unmistakeable; there is no other like it, anywhere.”

“Blimey!” said Fee Spring.

“Indeed, mademoiselle. The effect upon my mind

was profound: at once, I put together several things

like pieces of a jigsaw that fit perfectly. The strong

coffee, it is very good for the brain.” Poirot looked

pointedly at Fee as he said this. She pursed her lips in

disapproval.

“This not very capable maid—pardon me,

Mademoiselle Dorcas, I am sure you will improve,

given time—she was
new
! I put this fact together with

the coffee from Pleasant’s, and it gave me an idea:

what if Jennie Hobbs was Louisa Wallace’s maid,

before Dorcas? I knew from the waitresses at

Pleasant’s that Jennie used to go there often to collect

things for her employer, who was a posh society lady.

Jennie spoke of her as ‘Her Ladyship.’ It would be

interesting, would it not, if Jennie, until a few days

ago, worked for the woman providing Nancy

Ducane’s alibi? An extraordinary coincidence—
or

not a coincidence at all
! At first, my thoughts on this

matter proceeded along an incorrect track. I thought,

‘Nancy Ducane and Louisa Wallace are friends who

have conspired to kill
la pauvre
Jennie.’ ”

“What a suggestion!” said Louisa Wallace

indignantly.

“A shocking lie!” her husband St. John agreed.

“Not a lie,
pas du tout
. A mistake. Jennie, as we

see, is not dead. However, I was not mistaken to

believe that she was a servant in the home of St. John

and Louisa Wallace, replaced very recently by

Mademoiselle Dorcas. After speaking to me at

Pleasant’s on the night of the murders, Jennie
had
to

leave the Wallaces’ house, and quickly. She knew that